


I Don't Have to Sell My Soul, He's Already in Me

by omarandjohnny



Category: Being Human (UK)
Genre: Blood, Canon-Typical Violence, Episode Related, First Time, M/M, Songfic, Vampires, Werewolves
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-16
Updated: 2015-10-16
Packaged: 2018-04-23 04:22:02
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,837
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4862960
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/omarandjohnny/pseuds/omarandjohnny
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"And then, what?" Takes place the night George and Mitchell first met. Wounds are licked, and bonds are formed. Title courtesy of The Stone Roses.</p>
            </blockquote>





	I Don't Have to Sell My Soul, He's Already in Me

> _"And then, what?_  
>  _I can't keep...I've lost everything._  
>  _I've had this for six months, and now there are vampires?_  
>  _And they want to kill me, so I have to leave...again._  
>  _And then, what!"_

"Can I em, go through...man?" Mitchell halted at the threshold, unsure of what to call the werewolf.

"It's George, and yes, go through."

The first thing Mitchell noticed upon entering the room, was the overwhelming smell of chip oil. It seemed to smother the air in every direction, he was amazed that the werewolf managed to live with it for six minutes, never mind six months. 

He watched as the younger man peeled off his bloodstained shirt and threw it in the dustbin. Before George turned, Mitchell caught a glimpse of the violent pink scars running vertical along his left shoulder. Still adjusting to the slow-forming keloids, George's arm maintained a stiffness, and that made something in Mitchell wince; something buried, but not quite gone. The pain of the attack was written all over the younger man's face, masked by the reflex of human pride, but Mitchell was not fooled. 

The werewolf seemed to forget Mitchell was there, busying himself with the linen basket at the far side of the room. Not finding an available chair, he settled on the edge of George's bed. Worn sheets---slightly yellowed by the alkali of night sweats---were pulled hospital crisp against the mattress. Mitchell found the contradiction amusing, and sad. He caught George's eye, and gestured for him to sit as well. 

"George, you're making me nervous."

The man chuckled, and rested next to him, folding his hands in his lap. "I'm making you nervous? I...I apologize, it's just that with the whole 'vampires are real and they want to see me dead' thing, I'm feeling a bit out of sorts tonight."

Mitchell took the hint, and rose from the bed. "If you're alright then I think I'd better go." He straightened his jacket and took a step, feeling the hand on his back a second before George stood up to place it.

"Don't...I mean. You don't have to go, I didn't mean it like that. I need, I ne-ne-need you to talk to me. I need answers!" The last sentence was forced at him, and with it, a minute spray of blood from George's reopened lower lip. Mitchell turned away in an instant, the sour musk of it making his stomach leap. The scent was too different, too much all at once. It was earthen and meaty. It was rotted plant life and unwashed fur. It was disgusting, and utterly intoxicating. Mitchell knew that upon tasting it, he probably would not be able to stop.

"George, your mouth. I, em," Mitchell kept his eyes down as he rubbed the transfer from his chin, not wanting to frighten away the small progress of the conversation with a flash of ebony. 

George shuffled to the kitchenette, prompting Mitchell to sit once more. He forced himself to calm down, blinking away the black. He remained still as George returned, patting his face with a damp towel. He looked up again, only to catch the younger man's line of sight. There was something in George's eyes that wanted, _needed_ to trick Mitchell into thinking the vampire's every thought was being broadcasted outwards. And just as Mitchell thought it, George leaned in and whispered," I can smell you too."

Mitchell's eyes darkened, and he shot from his seat.

"Don't worry, full moon's five days away. But I guess you know how things work," George continued," Did you come up here to kill me? Scare off your mates to have me all to yourself!" 

Mitchell knew the talk was just so much chest-thumping, as he could still taste the fear in the air. " No, George. I don't want to kill you, I don't see the sense of it." He watched George dial back his anger, almost hearing the bluster in his mind fade again to a dull hum. He knelt at George's feet, resting a palm on the man's knee. "I wish I had the answers for you, you seem like a man who deserves them. But I can't give you the hows and the whys. This is all there is. The real world wants nothing of us, save mutual ignorance, so here we stay...in the shadows."

George let out a weak moan, and sank down to the floor. "Please don't...I just can't..." 

Without thinking, Mitchell pulled off his gloves and turned to face him. George shuddered as Mitchell's chilled fingers found their destination, wrapping around the younger man's feverish face. He could sense George's unease, and attempted to quell it with a light kiss. _Avoid the cuts, avoid the cuts._ In an instant, cool became cold, and resting back on his heels, he could see the anger return in George's eyes. 

"I'm s-orry," Mitchell stammered as he recoiled, rising in tandem with the younger man.

"You're sorry?" George spat, "Sorry?! I've just had my world crash down on me for the second time in a year, and you're sorry over a bloody kiss!"

It occurred so quickly, Mitchell saw it happen in slow motion. George's fists careening out and up, the sharp grate of knuckles against his breastbone, the feeling of weightlessness as he crashed to the floor. His natural instinct told him to leap back up, swat the _boy_ down and open his throat like a penny fountain. He could sense the fight had not left George, and he knew the werewolf needed this, so Mitchell stayed limp as he was being pummeled. A bare foot found purchase in his rib cage, a fist cracked against his collarbone, an elbow stabbed his thigh. It didn't take long for the already weakened George to tire, and as the hits wound down, Mitchell opened his eyes long enough to see the werewolf collapse against the bed, a flood of tears streaking his face. 

As the sobbing died down George asked,"There's nothing left of the world for people like us, that's all you tell me?" Crawling to Mitchell, he continued,"And then you try to kiss me?"

Mitchell could hear the click in his head, realizing his insensitivity. _There's still a schoolboy in there somewhere, shit._ He wrapped his arms around George, and said softly,"I didn't mean it like that, I'm sorry. What I meant to say is that there's nothing left of the past for us, but that doesn't mean we're done here and now." He placed his hand against George's neck, and tentatively kissed his cheek."We don't **have** to hide in the alleys like rats. I'm so tired of living in the dark, George...aren't you tired of it?" The werewolf nodded against Mitchell before he went on," If we...I dunno...tried to stay out of the alleys together, maybe things wouldn't look so grim, yeah?"

He looked at George, the reflection of his black eyes mirrored in the more natural blue. "I can't remember what they called you," George said before nestling against Mitchell's neck. The vampire gasped at the sudden heat of fingers under the back of his shirt, a careful hand surveying the nubs of his spine. 

"M-Mitchell," was all he could get out as George continued his exploration, seemingly awed by the refrigerated temperature of his flesh. He quickly pulled off his jacket and shirt, giving the werewolf better access. 

"You're so cold, how do you, I mean?" George stuttered, tracing a thumb over Mitchell's right nipple. "So cold, my god," he whispered, and leaned in to kiss Mitchell. Cautious at first, Mitchell didn't press into the kiss, fearing the delicate, wounded skin would break open again. He felt George's breath quicken, and lightly darted his tongue. With a start, George pulled him closer, deepening the kiss and reopening the split lip. The taste was immediate. Dead animals, stale tea, rotten wood, it coated his chin and trickled down his throat. He felt the fangs, but could not stop. He heard a whimper as he bit into George's lip, but could not stop. It was horrible and wonderful. It was the taste of George battling with the monster that grew inside him; fury and regret and all those terrible thoughts that the creature secreted away from the parts that were still George. He swallowed hard and then pried himself off. George's eyes stared wide, spun with pain and arousal. 

"George, I'm so sorry, I didn't mean to," he muttered, licking at his fangs. 

George shook his head, and resumed the embrace. "You didn't hurt me, Mitchell, I'm okay," he replied, cementing the assurance by licking at his own blood off Mitchell's face. 

Mitchell could sense that a wall had come down between them, sometime between the first _failed_ kiss and first _successful_ bite. A new air of eagerness rose from George. _Like a puppy_ , he mused, watching the man trip over his clothes as he tore them off. George gave him a crooked smile, gesturing for Mitchell to take off his trousers as well, a command that didn't have to be repeated. 

Both standing naked, George nuzzled into Mitchell's neck, his solid weight pulling them both onto the bed with ease. The perfumed hunger of the vampire appeared to commingle with the animal scent rising from the werewolf's body underneath him. Mitchell could tell by the look on George's face that he could smell it too, and with much keener senses. George grabbed at Mitchell's ass with both hands, seeming to want every square inch covered with his touch. Mitchell moaned into the short rough of George's nape, absently clawing at bare flesh as they struggled to find a common beat. 

He couldn't resist George's mouth any longer, and turning his head, he dove into the wreck of George's lips. Mitchell's tongue opened a cut as they kissed, and fangs soon reappeared, garnering a positive response from George in the form of a hot hand weaving in between their bodies in order to wrap around Mitchell's cock. A low growl emanated from George as Mitchell sucked and bit, and it wasn't long before he moved to the valley of the man's neck. He took in a breath, and paused. 

"It's okay," George said for the second time that night, and accompanying the consent, George tightened his grip. 

Mitchell gasped, and sank his gratitude deep into George's shoulder. He drank with caution, concentrating on the stop and start of George's hand against his cock. He knew that if the grip faltered, he was taking in too much. The intersection of smells and tastes, old death wrapped in the youthful sting of ammonia, drove Mitchell to a higher plane. Feeling a quick shudder beneath him, he unfastened himself from the crook of George's shoulder, and looking carefully into his eyes he asked, "George, are you alright?"

"Fi-fine," George uttered, and weakly bucked his hips upward. 

Mitchell feared the worst, and as if hearing him again, George washed away the thought with a kick of his legs. Color quickly bloomed back into the werewolf's face, and Mitchell could feel the need grinding between them, hard and desperate. George grabbed Mitchell's ass again, trying in vain to fold them into one being. Mitchell nipped at George's chest and collarbone as they writhed, leaving marks that made a shaky trail across the span of his upper torso. 

The growling continued, not quite animal yet, but not man either, and it sent shivers down Mitchell's flanks. Mitchell rose to a kneeling position, and spat into his hand; George's frothy blood the only thing filling his palm. He stared at George, who answered the question by adding a gob of cocoa butter lotion to the mix. Mitchell flashed a toothy grin as he thought, _bless those scar soothing remedies._ He proceeded to rub the bloodied slick along George's shaft, using the remainder to keep his own fingers lubricated. Resting his forehead in the gore of George's shoulder, Mitchell pushed his finger slowly inside his ass. He then snaked a second finger in, grunting into George's chest as he wriggled them around, making room for his new companion. 

George made a single ticking sound, signaling Mitchell to look up, and as he did, George kissed him again. The meat of George's tongue scraped against Mitchell's fangs more than once, but neither seemed to care. The kiss was full, and warm, and that was all that mattered. Mitchell withdrew his fingers and swiftly replaced them with George's cock. The werewolf growled and sat up, slamming into Mitchell as he switched positions on the bed. Mitchell cried out, mind spinning with the rhythm as he folded his legs against George's back. Mitchell lapped at George's mouth, neck, ears, and with every lick, George matched with a harder upward thrust. The sounds were no longer discernible as human, and Mitchell took a moment to look into George's eyes, _just in case_ , but they were brilliant and blue; he let a relieved moan slip out, and gripped George tighter. Mitchell then guided George to a sitting position so he could lose himself in the ride. The feeling was incomprehensible, thrusting himself down on George, it made him feel alive. _So few things did._

Mitchell wavered in and out as the rush of George's heat took his body over section by section, and before he could register it, George had flipped them over again, Mitchell's back flush against the mattress once more. George took Mitchell's legs with his hands, and began jack-hammering like a teenager, all lingering sense of modesty thrown aside in favor of sheer, repetitive force. The look on George's face as he grunted and growled made Mitchell smile, but he stifled the laughter that threatened to bubble up. 

The relentlessness of George's motions began to work their magic, and Mitchell brought a hand up, tightly grasping his own dick to pump in time with George. Looking down to see what Mitchell was doing, the werewolf shook the mattress, appearing to lose control over every muscle he had, and let out an almost comical howl as he came, driving so deep Mitchell could swear he'd felt his ribs light up. Grabbing George close, he stole one more taste of the semi-clotted shoulder wound, and let out a low scream as he finally succumbed.

Collapsing into Mitchell's arms, George whispered," It really is okay, isn't it?" 

The vampire kissed his blood-streaked face and replied, "Yeah, George, it is."

\---

The first thing Mitchell noticed upon waking up were the curtains, shut tight and fastened, _cellotaped_ , against the windows. Small cracks of light gave the room a funny amber glow, and as he slowly sat up, Mitchell noticed he was alone in bed.

"George? George," he called, the sound of his voice echoing along the far wall. He then heard the rapid scurrying of someone running up the staircase. George bounded in seconds after, shutting the door fast.

"Is it enough? I mean, the sun, I mean, you're not gonna?" George pointed to the slivers of light and continued rambling,"Oh my god, I didn't use enough, don't get up, I mean, your arm! Your arm is in the light?! You're gonna, you're gonna!" He then made a dramatic whooshing sound, threw the bedsheet over Mitchell's arm, and began digging through the hamper for more coverage.

"I'm fine, George, calm down," Mitchell laughed, scooting off the mattress. He lifted his arm into the light for a few moments, and then dropped it again. "See, no combustion. Just makes me a bit sick if I'm out too long." 

George heaved a sigh of relief, and hugged him, muffling the remaining giggles left in Mitchell's system. He returned the embrace fully, and looked down to see a glint of jewelry catch the sunlight.

"That's nice, George, what is it?" George caught his gaze, smiled, and pulled the Star of David necklace from under his shirt.

Mitchell panicked only momentarily, the twinge passing as fast as it arose. "Hmm," was all he could say, before returning to the warmth of the hug. Mitchell then rested his head on George's left shoulder, knowing the right would still be quite sore. "You need to eat, George, if you haven't already," he mumbled against the soft flannel of George's shirt. 

The werewolf smiled, releasing the embrace. "Taken care of. I woke up this morning craving half a dozen eggs. Four days, and all."

Mitchell nodded, pulling his clothes on as he moved around. "Where do you go, on the night of?"

"Well, I used to go to this abandoned factory nearby, old industrial-sized cold storage in the basement. Guess that's out of the question now."

Mitchell looked at the werewolf with a tinge of sorrow and replied,"Yes, George, I'm.."

George cut him off, squeezing his gloved hand. "Time to move on. Right, Mitchell?" 

Mitchell grinned, spotting the packed bag at the door as they put on their coats. "Yeah, time to move on."

 

\---

end.

**Author's Note:**

> originally written for Bring Back the Porn challenge September-2009. Reworked a bit. I claim neither the characters or the song that inspired this fic.


End file.
